


(Don't) Trust the System

by mizdiz



Category: Black Mirror (TV), The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Crossover, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-07 19:55:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20822912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mizdiz/pseuds/mizdiz
Summary: It's the perfect system, that's what they say. You'll find your perfect match, and together you'll live the rest of your lives in your own personal paradise. You just have to sort through the wrong matches first. But what happens when the wrong match feels like the one you've been looking for all along...?[inspired by the Black Mirror episode "Hang the DJ"; can be read as standalone]





	(Don't) Trust the System

**Author's Note:**

> this is technically a crossover with the black mirror episode, "hang the dj," but it's not a prerequisite to see that before reading this, you can still understand it. and if you have seen "hang the dj," i took liberties with that too, so both are au i guess, lmao. anyway, enjoy!!!

There’s a bustling sound surrounding her; the clinks of silverware hitting plates, the shuffle of feet, and the undertone of hushed voices. This is the nicest restaurant she’s ever been to, but then, isn’t every place she goes lately been the best of what she’s ever had? She drags her finger along the condensation on the outside of her glass of ice water, her foot tapping against the bamboo flooring on its own accord. She picks up the small circular device sat beside her silverware wrapped in a cloth napkin and raises it to her lips.

“Coach?” she whispers to it.

“Yes?” comes the female voice that has a strange metallic quality to it that makes it sound  _ just _ robotic enough to remind Carol she’s speaking to a computer.

“Can you tell me anything about him?” 

“Negative,” says her coach. “All details of your match must be obtained organically.”

“Yeah, but can you at least tell me what he looks like? So that I know when he gets here?”

“Negative. All details of your match must be obtained—”

“Organically,” Carol finishes for it with a huff. She sighs, leaning back in her chair and rubbing her face. She drops her hands abruptly, remembering she’s wearing eyeliner. She picks up her coaching device and tries to examine her reflection in the black screen, running the tip of her pinky along her lower eyelid, swiping away any smudged makeup. She bares her teeth and picks between her incisors with a fingernail in case she left anything behind from lunch. 

“Um…” Someone clears their throat in front of her. “You waitin’ on your match?” 

Carol looks up, eyes wide, nail still pressed between her teeth. She drops her hand like an anchor, discreetly wiping her saliva on her napkin. She pushes her short hair off her forehead, hits the table with her knee, and cringes when everything on top rattles.

“Yeah. I mean yes, you are. No, sorry, I mean  _ I _ am. Waiting. For my match to get here. Which is you? Well, of course it is, because otherwise why would you be asking, that’s silly of me, I should think before I—fucking hell.” Carol takes a deep breath, centering herself. She exhales, puts on a polite smile, and says, “Let’s try that again. Yes, I am waiting for my match. Is that you?”

The man in front of her seems to be suppressing a grin, and she takes that moment to examine him. The first thing she notices is that, despite his hidden smile, he’s clearly nervous as hell. He carries tension in his shoulders, and as his grin fades he takes his lower lip in between his teeth and bites it. The second thing she notices is that he’s attractive—all broad, muscular shoulders, mussed dark hair, and even darker eyes—and she prays that she managed to fix her eyeliner and isn’t sat looking like a raccoon in front of this man who’s so much her type he’s practically a goddamn Adonis. The man clears his throat in what appears to be a nervous tick and nods.

“Yeah. Coach showed me your picture so I could find you.” He scratches the back of his head, looking everywhere but at her, and she’s awash with the fear that he’s disappointed that she’s the one he’s meeting tonight. 

“I’m Carol,” she says tentatively. “Sorry if...just...you know, sorry.” 

The man’s eyes snap to hers then and he furrows his brow.

“Why you sorry?” he asks. She gives an awkward one-shouldered shrug.

“I dunno, I just feel bad if I’m not, you know, your type.”

The man blows out a breath and shakes his head, twisting his mouth sheepishly. “I’m fuckin’ this up already, huh?” he says. “It ain’t you, promise. You’re...you look...um, it’s just that this is my first time and I weren’t never the type to meet up at fancy restaurants with pretty girls—er, women—even before comin’ here.”

Did he just call her pretty? She lets herself relax a little.

“It’s my first time, too,” she says, her polite smile morphing into something more genuine. 

“Oh,” the man says, and she can see his shoulders loosen up some. She gestures at the chair across from her.

“You gonna sit, or would you rather do dinner standing up.” 

“Oh,” he says again. He pulls the chair back too hard, catching it before it goes toppling backwards. His cheeks turn cherry red as he fumbles around until he’s finally able to take a seat at the table. “Sorry,” he mutters.

“I’m implementing a rule,” Carol says. “We’re not allowed to apologize for stupid things for the rest of the night. I have a feeling if we let ourselves then the majority of our conversation is going to be, ‘I’m sorry,’ and, ‘don’t worry, it’s fine.’” That small, suppressed smile ghosts over the man’s face again.

“Alright,” he says quietly. “I can do that.”

“Good. Now, do I get to know your name, or should I make one up?”

“Shit, sor—I mean, name’s Daryl.”

“Nice to meet you, Daryl,” Carol says, holding her hand out. He stares at it for a beat before taking it in his hand for a beat and letting go. “You think they paired us up because our names rhyme?” 

Daryl snorts at that, and Carol gets a fleeting sense of pride, suspecting that it’s not easy to get a laugh out of this one.

“Could be,” he mutters. “Wouldn’t put it past ‘em. Who knows what kind of stuff they use to make them perfect matches they promise.”

“99.8% find their soulmate,” Carol says with a smirk. “Or so they say.”

“Or so they say,” Daryl agrees. A stilted silence falls over them. They both clear their throats at the same time and then cast shy smiles at one another.

“Do you wanna…?” Carol asks, picking up her coaching device and holding it up for Daryl to see.

“Check the expiration?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“Mkay,” he mumbles, picking up his own device. “How’s it work?”

“I think we have to press it at the same time.”

“Mkay.”

“On three?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. One...two...three.” Carol presses her finger to the glowing button on her coaching device as Daryl does the same on his. She drums her fingers on the table, waiting, and a few seconds later her screen lights up with a big, “12 HOURS.” She knits her brow together, conflicted. She glances up at Daryl, who’s mirroring her expression. 

“Ain’t that long,” he says. 

“Not long at all. Maybe they want our first times to be shorter to test the waters or something?”

“Could be.”

“Well,” Carol says, setting her coaching device aside and straightening her back. “Best make these twelve hours count, then.”

“How do we...where do we start?” He ducks his head, and Carol feels certain that he wasn’t lying about his dating history, or lack thereof.   
  


“In my experience, dinner dates tend to involve dinner. Maybe we could start there.”

Daryl doesn’t lift his head, but she can see the corner of his lip tug up.

“There ain’t no menus,” he mutters, and Carol searches the table and realizes he’s right.

As if on cue, a waiter shows up carrying two plates in his hands. In front of Carol he sits a large, juicy steak and potatoes, and in front of Daryl he places chicken cordon bleu with a side of grilled asparagus. The waiter mutters something that sounds like, “enjoy,” and disappears as suddenly as he arrived. 

“Looks good,” Daryl says, and when she looks at him he sees him eyeing her steak instead of his own plate. Her gaze falls to his chicken and her mouth waters. 

“Sure does,” she agrees. A beat of silence.

“Wanna trade?” Daryl asks then, and Carol beams. They swap plates and dig into their meals, making light conversation throughout, occasionally swapping shy glances at one another, and Carol finds herself thinking about that ticking clock on her coaching device, and wishes absently the end wasn’t so close already.

*

After dinner the two of them are taken to a self-driving car, where they squeeze into the back. Carol wonders if the space is meant to be small to force them into each other’s personal space. She tries her best to give Daryl breathing room, but even when she scoots all the way over their arms still brush together, and whenever they go over a bump in the road and they rub up against one another she gets a fluttering in her belly.

It takes fifteen minutes on the dot to pull up to their home for the night. The car doors open up automatically, and Carol says, “Thank you,” out of habit.

“You are welcome,” says the car’s computer. Carol huffs through her nose and slides out, Daryl close behind. The second they’ve exited the car doors shut and it drives off, leaving them alone in front of a giant, modern building. 

“My house from back on the outside coulda fit in this place three times, easy,” Daryl says, breaking the silence. Carol hums in agreement.

“I already know this is way more lavish than anywhere I’ve ever lived and we haven’t even seen the inside yet,” she says. 

“Well...wanna take a look?” he asks, eyes wary, as though she might say no and just sleep on the ground outside.

“Yes,” she says with more confidence than she feels. Neither of them move.

“Ladies first?” Daryl says, and Carol laughs.

“What a gentleman,” she says, but steps up to the door anyway. She presses her thumb against the scanner that’s placed where a doorbell should be, and the door slides open, revealing what’s inside. Her eyebrows raise to her hairline. “Whoa.”

“Yeah?” Daryl asks, still hovering a ways behind her. 

“See for yourself,” Carol says, moving to the side. Tentatively, Daryl walks up and takes a peek. 

“...Whoa,” he says as he takes it all in.

“Right?” She nudges him gently. “Come on, let’s go check it out.”

Daryl chews on his lip, nodding, and they go over the threshold. The living room is spacious with vaulted ceilings, and big, comfy, leather couches and armchairs. There are throw pillows, and low lighting, and a beautiful hardwood floor. 

“I think that must lead to the bedroom,” Carol says, pointing up a set of four stairs. Daryl follows her up them. There’s no door, so when the turn the corner they’re greeted by a beautiful, ambient room, with a luxurious king-sized bed in the middle, and Carol can feel Daryl come to the same realization right as she does.

One room.

One bed.

Carol clicks her tongue.

“So that’s a bit...forward,” she says. Daryl clears his throat.

“Yeah, kinda.” He’s looking at his shoes when he mutters, “Is that...are we...Is it a requirement to…?” The poor thing can’t get the words out. 

“I can’t imagine they’d force us to do anything we aren’t comfortable with,” she says, coming to his rescue, but even as she says it she’s not sure. Neither of them were particularly comfortable at the start of dinner but they had to do that. But surely this is something of a different caliber. Right?

“What if it is, though?” Daryl asks, face a brilliant scarlet. “Not that I’m tryna force you into anything,” he adds quickly. “Not that I expect nothin’, or if you wanted to, it’s not like I’d be offended, or not want to...I mean, we just met, so I get it...don’t want us to get in trouble, but like...oh mother of—” He whips his coaching device out of his pocket. “Coach?” he snaps.

“Yes?” comes the same metallic voice as Carol’s. 

“The two of us, we ain’t like, required to...you know?”

“Question too broad, please clarify.”

Daryl huffs.

“Are we meant to like, get together?”

“Matches are required to remain together until the predetermined expiration time.”

“No, I know that, but…” He looks at Carol apologetically and asks, “Are the two of us s’posed to like...have sex?” He cringes at his own question, and shifts his body away from her slightly, as though she hadn’t had the same question.

“Both participants must consent to any and all sexual acts. There are no other requirements pertaining to intercourse.” 

“Intercourse,” Daryl mutters, rubbing a temple. He stuffs his device back in his pocket and to his shoes says, “I can take the couch.”

“No,” Carol says quickly. Daryl hazards a glance at her, shame still etched all over his face despite doing nothing wrong. “I mean, the bed’s big enough for both of us. There’s no sense spending the night on a cramped couch when you could be sleeping on what looks like a goddamn cloud.” At his hesitation, she adds, “We don’t have to do anything; we  _ both _ have to consent, and you’re right—we just met. It’s fine.” 

It occurs to her then that maybe he  _ does _ want to have sex with her and she just cockblocked herself, but when Daryl nods his tentative agreement she feels relieved. This is too new—not just him, but all of it—and she doesn’t know if she’s ready to screw around with a stranger just yet.

They tour the rest of the house, the tension between them lessening with every passing minute, until they’re back to the comfort they’d managed to establish back at the restaurant. They take turns getting ready for bed in the bathroom. Daryl comes out after her and she doesn’t miss his swallow when he takes in the sight of her in her silk nightgown, lounging on top of the comforter. She can’t exactly fault him, given he’s wearing a sleeveless undershirt with his sweats and she can make out every curve of his arm muscles and is definitely enjoying it. 

“I hope it’s okay that I took this side of the bed,” she says, stopping her thoughts in their tracks before they stray into dangerous territory. “It’s the side I always slept on back before.”

“Mm, this gonna be our first argument?” Daryl asks, that shadow of a smile adorning his face again. “Who gets what side of the bed?” Carol grins.

“Well, that depends on you,” she teases. “Are you gonna fight me on which side of the bed I get?”

“Nah. I might not got a ton of experience, but I’m pretty sure that the woman’s always right. Ain’t that how it goes?” 

“Smart man,” Carol says, lifting the comforter and scooting around until she’s nice and cozy underneath it. She pats the space beside her. “No funny business. I promise.”

Daryl picks at a cuticle, before giving a single, solid nod, and Carol can tell it takes a lot of effort for him to take those few strides to the other side of the bed. He crawls under the blankets, and seems relieved that there appears to be a distant amount of space between them, and Carol would be offended except she feels the same way. 

The two of them lay on their backs, staring up at the ceiling, saying nothing, but painfully aware that the other is wide awake. After a few minutes of this, Carol shifts onto her side and faces him. He turns his head and watches her warily. She gives him a reassuring smile that eases some of the fear from his eyes.

“Why’d you come here?” she asks.

“You mean why’d I sign up for the system?” he asks. 

“Mhm.”

“I dunno,” he says, shrugging. They both know that a lie—no one signs up on a whim. No one would go through all that red tape, the waivers, the contracts, not to mention the money if they didn’t have a reason. “Nah, that ain’t true,” he amends. He furrows his brow, thinking.

“You don’t have to say if it’s private,” Carol tells him gently. Oddly enough, that statement seems to give him the confidence to say it. 

“Had a shit life on the outside,” he says. “Only family I had was my brother, and he was in and out of prison so much I barely ever saw him. Had a job I hated, a house I didn’t care about enough to take care of, and...I dunno, I was lonely.” He scrunches his nose at his own statement, as if admitting loneliness was something to be ashamed of. “Never gave much thought to the idea of bein’ with nobody, but the more I heard about this place, the more I thought, ‘hell, maybe it’s worth it.’ And who wouldn’t be kinda curious, right? The promise of meetin’ your ‘perfect match,’ and then gettin’ sent to wherever your own personal paradise is? Had nothin’ to lose. So I drained my savings, and here we are.”

“Here we are,” Carol echoes.

“You?” he asks, and even though she was expecting it she still isn’t looking forward to answering. But he was transparent with her, so it’s only fair she do the same.

“I was married,” she says. Daryl raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t comment. “He was...not a good husband.”

“I’m gettin’ the feeling that might be an understatement,” Daryl says softly, and she knows right then that he understands already.

“It took standing in my living room nursing my fourth dislocated shoulder with a gun to my head before I finally had the balls to say to myself, ‘hey, maybe this isn’t the best relationship.’” 

“Not your fault,” Daryl says, throwing Carol for a loop. How had he read the guilt in her voice so easily?

“I could have left way before it got to that point.”

“It ain’t never that easy,” he says. He surprises her again by shifting onto his side so that they’re face to face. “Point is you left, and thank Christ you survived.”

Carol wets her bottom lip. The number of times she’d heard the words, “why didn’t you just leave?”, even from people she loved, had made her believe she was the one at fault, but Daryl has shut that belief down before she’s even had a chance to properly voice it. She doesn’t know how to reply to that, so instead she continues with her story.

“Anyway, I got the house in the divorce. I sold it almost immediately, took the money, and came here. Seemed like the best way I could spite him was to become happy—love of my life, living in paradise levels of happy—and so, well, here we are.” 

Daryl smiles then, a real smile and not just a ghost of one, and his entire face transforms when he does. There’s a gentleness to him she wouldn’t have expected, and for the first time in years she feels safe in the presence of a man, and she knows it isn’t because the system doesn’t allow domestic violence—it’s him. 

“How long do you think it’ll take for you to find your perfect match?” Carol asks him. Daryl shakes his head.

“Dunno.”

“You ever think...Do you know if they ever pair people up more than once?” 

Daryl seems to hear the unvoiced question in her words. His smile fades a little when he says quietly, “I hope so.”

*

They don’t sleep a wink. They lay in bed talking until sunrise. Some of it is deep, some of it is funny, and the majority is just whatever topic comes up naturally, and Carol has never had conversation come so easily, and with how reserved Daryl seems, she’s guessing neither has he. 

“Ten minutes before you must vacate the premises,” both Carol and Daryl’s coaching devices say at the same time. Carol gives Daryl a sad smile, and he surprises her by reaching over and pushing a strand of hair out of her face. Reluctantly, they pull themselves out of bed and hurriedly clean themselves up. Together they take a final look at their home that was much too temporary, before stepping outside.

“One minute,” Carol says, checking her device. 59, 58, 57—the seconds count down like a threat. She searches for the right words to convey her feelings. She says the best thing she can come up with, which is, “I’m really glad I met you.” It doesn’t seem like enough.

Daryl stares at her, and she can tell he’s wracking his brain for something significant to tell her in response. He shakes his head, apparently coming up empty. Instead, he steps into her space, and, leaning down slowly to give her time to object, presses his lips to hers. She returns the kiss instantly, reaching out and gripping him by the forearm. He cups her cheek with one hand, and they stand like that until the devices in their hands beep, signaling the end of their time together.

They pull apart, and Carol has the absurd desire to cry. 

“Goodbye, Daryl,” Carol says, their respective cars showing up like they popped out of thin air. He chews on his lower lip, drinking her in like he’s committing her to memory. He gives a single nod and turns away, and Carol watches him get into his car. He gets carted away, off to his next match, and she goes to catch her own ride, the feeling of his lips still tingling on her own like phantom pains.

**Author's Note:**

> what do you mean i have other writing projects right now? what do you mean i have obligations and life things i should be focusing on? mind ya business.
> 
> i've been wanting to do a fic crossover with this episode of black mirror for like, two years, and i finally figured out how. i know i got other stuff in the works, but i wanted to work on this while i had the momentum. sue me.
> 
> (plz don't sue me, i'm poor, i can't afford a lawyer)
> 
> k, byee,  
-diz


End file.
